Served with a Side of Papaya

Leo's life had become a masterclass in overthinking. Ever since Chloe—the junior with the effortless smile and actual defined cheekbones—had mentioned she played padel, Leo had been strategically *running* past the courts every Tuesday and Thursday. His route wasn't exactly efficient, but nothing says low-key crush behavior like excessive cardio and conspicuous casualness.

This Tuesday, fate finally cooperated. Chloe was there, stretching against the chain-link fence, her tennis bag slung over one shoulder like it weighed absolutely nothing. Leo's stomach did something genuinely concerning. Was this what having a crush felt like, or did he need to see a doctor?

"Hey!" she called, spotting him. "You run here every week, right?"

Leo nodded, trying to look winded in a cool way. "Training for... track stuff. You play?"

"Padel," she said, gesturing at the court. "Want to hit a few? I'm meeting my partner but she's running late."

So that's how Leo ended up holding a padel racquet for the first time in his life, sweating through his favorite shirt, swinging at air like a malfunctioning wind turbine. Chloe, naturally, moved with this terrifying grace—like she'd been born with a racquet in hand and had just been waiting for the rest of the world to catch up.

Then, mid-serve, a calico cat materialized on the court. Not near the court. ON it. The cat stared Leo down with a look that said, *This athletic display is underwhelming.*

"That's Papaya," Chloe said, laughing. "Some genius named her after she kept stealing fruit from the cafeteria dumpster."

Papaya the cat proceeded to chase every ball Leo hit, batting at them with terrifying precision. He was being outplayed by a feline. In front of his crush. This was fine. Everything was fine.

"Want some water?" Chloe asked after his third failed serve. "You look like you're about to pass out."

They sat on the bench, Chloe handing him a bottle she pulled from her bag. The condensation cold against his palm. Papaya curled up on Leo's discarded shoes, purring like a tiny engine.

"So," Chloe said, "track stuff?"

Leo sighed. "No track stuff. I just... I wanted to talk to you."

"I know," she said, grinning. "You're not exactly subtle. But for what it's worth? I've been hoping you'd stop running past and actually say something."

Later, Leo would remember a lot of things: the way the sun hit the courts at 4 PM, how Papaya decided to adopt his right shoe, the taste of papaya smoothie they got afterward because Chloe swore it would be their thing. But mostly, he'd remember the moment he stopped running—literally and metaphorically—and just sat there on a bench, sweaty and embarrassed, feeling entirely okay with being exactly who he was.